


Ficlet: Human Touch (PG)

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M, fanfic100, ka fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long road cannot divide friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ficlet: Human Touch (PG)

**Author's Note:**

> Still a favorite.

Lancelot’s in the stables, curly head bent over his saddle. The oil coated cloth strokes the leather time and again; the rhythmic movement soothing and familiar.

The rain continues to beat on the roof, and he smiles as he listens to Galahad complain about the amount of time he’s spent on horseback that afternoon. The pup would whine about riches if he had nothing else on his mind, Lancelot thinks, then focuses on his task.

Gawain holds the lead of Galahad’s mare. The two men have been circling and practicing quick battle movements for a few hours now, and Lancelot has to grudgingly admit the youngster’s progress has improved remarkably with the older blond’s help. Gawain’s brother Gaheris had died in a skirmish six months previous, and they all thought he’d never open up again, until he discovered Galahad. The dark haired boy had rapidly become blood to Gawain, and the older knight was slowly coming back to himself. That was nice to see.

A while later, the sun’s setting (albeit weakly due to the rain) and the other knights are stopping by Lancelot’s bench, asking him to join them for dinner. He graciously declines, saying something about a tete a tete he’s set up for later. Galahad grins, and nudges Gawain. “And you said he’s become celibate.”

That makes Lancelot look up, his eyes clashing with the embarassed ones of Gawain. “Shut up, pup,” Gawain growls, knocking a soft hand into Galahad’s hair. “Sorry,” he mouths at Lancelot, who merely watches them as they leave.

Very shortly he’s alone in the stable, and he bends to his saddle again.

He can’t be angry with Gawain for speaking the truth.

Arthur’s been gone for four weeks. Four weeks with a contingent of infantry, to meet a large shipment of supplies coming in from the Eastern side of the Wall. Supposedly to Aelius, although Lancelot’s not certain they had to ride quite that far.

He’s taken Bors and Tristan with him as his backup and officers. 

Lancelot and Arthur had had a spectacular row the day the commander had announced whom he was taking. In the end, it had been decided (Lancelot snorts at the memory) that he would stay as Arthur’s representative at Camboglanna, and Arthur would take the two other knights on the journey. The fortress itself was seeing a spate of hardly any enemy activity, and Arthur felt it would be better if they split the leaders of his cavalry unit up so all the decision makers wouldn’t be in one place.

While Lancelot’s brain can’t argue with the logic, his heart has other ideas.

He knows Bors is strong as an ox, and Tristan is the best scout and deadliest shot with a bow the whole length of the Wall. It doesn’t matter. All he can see in his mind’s eye is Arthur dead by whatever hand chooses to take him.

And Lancelot won’t be there with him.

He stands abruptly as the whinny of a horse sounds, and heavy clopping announces the arrival of someone to the stables. He cocks an eyebrow, ready to chastise whomever happens to be unlucky enough to have chosen this moment to come inside.

“It’s pissing buckets,” he starts, laying his cloth down over his saddle, “and yet you chose to ride? What an intellegent soldier you must be.”

He stops as he rounds the corner, his anger deflating.

A flash of red cape as the rider dismounts, Jols taking the reins of the big white charger from his owner.

Leading the horse past Lancelot, the squire just shakes his head. “You should look before you leap,” he advises sagely, and Lancelot resists the urge to clout the man on the skull only slightly.

Dripping, Arthur strides to the small tables they have set up in the corner, removing his sodden cloak and gauntlets. He scrubs a hand through his hair, taking the proferred piece of linen from Lancelot with a nod of thanks. Rubbing his face with it, he disarms himself with ease, although Lancelot notes the commander is stiff and jerky with fatigue.

Serves him right, he thinks viciously, and retreats to the bench, picking up his bridle this time, his short knife in his hands quickly as he begins to saw at the broken section of leather, motions violent and rapid.

Arthur still hasn’t spoken, and Lancelot’s beginning to get angrier. He keeps on with his repairs, not admitting he’s actually watching the other man as Arthur finishes unkitting himself from his journey. The armor and riding clothing he leaves on the table, knowing his squire will come and fetch it. He pulls on a wrinkled but clean pair of trousers he’s dug from his bags, tugging a black tunic over his wet hair. He slumps at last, resting his ass on the wooden planks that serve as one of the tables.

Lancelot finds himself staring at Arthur’s bare, white feet. They seem strangely vulnerable and small sticking out of Arthur’s black pants, and a tiny sliver of guilt works its way through Lancelot.

Spitting a Sarmatian curse, he drops his bridle, and stands, face impassive.

“Are you going to speak to me? Or just brood all night?”

Arthur’s grey green eyes focus on him, and Lancelot sighs. The commander looks haggard, and for the first time since Lancelot’s known him, old.

That scares the knight, and he moves slowly toward the other man.

Arthur’s off his seat in a flash, meeting Lancelot before the younger man can get a few steps toward Arthur.

He stops, still not speaking, one hand raising tentatively upward. It rests at the base of Lancelot’s neck, the calloused fingers sliding into the short curly hair there. Lancelot can feel the other man’s hands shaking, and he opens his mouth to say something.

Arthur silences him by enveloping the knight in a fierce embrace, his free arm wrapping around Lancelot’s waist. A small squeak makes it’s way out of Lancelot’s throat, but he swallows roughly and stops the noise before it becomes something embarassing.

He circles Arthur’s middle with his own arms, and tightens them about the other man, feeling the cool flesh and muscles through Arthur’s thin tunic. He feels the commander’s head move as he buries his face in Lancelot’s neck, breathing rough, the hot air making Lancelot’s skin prickle.

Lancelot allows his fingers to map out Arthur’s back, the scars and bumps and various ridges more familiar to him than his own body, the motions intended more for soothing than anything else. A distinct shudder shakes Arthur, and with it Lancelot.

The younger man’s eyes close, and he breathes along with Arthur, their patterns beginning to match after a moment.

Lancelot grips tightly, the musky smell of road and horse and leather and Arthur wafting to his nose, his nostrils flaring as the scent is recognized. His throat burns and his head aches.

He feels Arthur’s lips move against his neck, and when he listens, he can hear the other man speaking.

He’s praying, in archaic Latin that Lancelot can only catch a few words of.

The normal annoyance that Lancelot feels when he finds Arthur praying shows up, but only for a fleeting second. The commander is murmuring quickly, his tremors slowing, his skin becoming more warm. Lancelot can understand a few more words now.

_Blessings upon them._

_Thank you, Father._

_Mine. Home. Friend._

He clears his throat, the cracking sound ugly in the quiet of the stables. Arthur pulls back slightly, his eyes red, but a beautiful smile on his lips.

Lancelot cocks an eyebrow, his fingers still playing along the other man’s back.

He thinks, then smirks. His horror and anger and longing can wait a while.

“I missed you, too.”

At last, the thing he’s waited to hear. Arthur laughs, and even if it is rusty, it’s the most wonderful thing Lancelot’s heard in four weeks.

Arthur embraces him again, and Lancelot calms, the rain still pouring outside.

He doesn’t notice it.


End file.
